Give us something to live for.

They’re reaching out from SVT News. In a time when the news makes everyone want to shoot themselves in front of the TV, a counterforce is desperately needed. They can’t control all the bad news, but for a while now, they’ve been trying to squeeze in some good stories to end their broadcasts on a positive note. Nothing seems to work.

The entire editorial team is gathered, and the atmosphere is grim.

-Public service should enlighten people, not scare them away or drive them into depression and suicidal thoughts, says the news chief despondently.

-And the segment with three lambs born as triplets on Öland doesn’t save any lives? I wonder.

-No, not even the feel-good story about an old man who fell into his own well and was rescued by his 12-year-old grandchild lifts people’s spirits.

-Because everyone realises that if a half-blind man and some lambs are the only good news of the day, then the world is beyond saving? I summarise.

Nods around the table.

-We don’t know what to do. That’s why we reached out to you. We need someone with a fundamentally positive and hopeful attitude who can help us.

Jesus, I think to myself. Not only do they have the world’s problems on their shoulders, but they’ve also contacted the completely wrong person for the job. They need God, but he’s either dead, a fundamentalist, or very busy covering up some paedophile scandal.

-Satire, I finally say. It’s the only thing that can both inform and make people laugh at the same time. Plus, it has the added bonus of driving regimes and those in power to madness. They can’t stand being laughed at.

-That’s unthinkable. Then we’re no longer objective.

-I’m not saying your Middle East correspondent should report from a humanitarian disaster with castanets in his hands and a laugh track running in the background.

-Thanks, says the news chief, closing his eyes.

-But maybe we can create a positive feeling with the viewers—a sense that we’re going through this crap together? We laugh at the clown in the White House, we watch in amusement as the planet reaches boiling point, we roll our eyes together at the fact that the world’s largest country sacrifices its sons to gain even more land. Together we share the world’s burdens, and somehow, it helps us carry on and dare to believe in a better future.

-This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, says the news chief, standing up. The meeting is over, but I feel a strong need to end it on a positive note.

-Do you know the difference between an optimist and a pessimist? I ask, looking around the room. No one can be bothered to answer.

-The pessimist is better informed, I say. Oddly enough, I don’t even get a smile in return.

Close up.

My wife and I were sitting in our new flat, catching our breath after the move. It had been demanding, both physically and emotionally. Mostly for me, of course, but as we sat among the packing boxes surveying our new home, it finally felt like we'd landed. We'd cracked open a bottle of red and started unpacking when my wife found an old photo album.

-Never seen this before.

-Sod that. I meant to bin it.

I reach for the album, but she twists away and opens it.

-Are you mad? You can't just chuck away part of your life!

She flicks through a few pages and chuckles. Meanwhile, I'm going clammy.

-Christ, look at you here - so sweet! Is this pre-uni?

-Dunno, love, just give it here...

-No, I want to see, she replies, turning another page.

-Please, darling...

Suddenly I notice my wife stiffen.

-Who's this then? she says in that icy tone.

-Who?

-The woman posing starkers in a bed.

-Right... don't recall that, I say, feigning nonchalance.

-Can't even remember her name?

-Come on, it was ages ago...

I hear my voice crack as she turns another page.

-Good grief, these are proper porn shots.

-No they're bloody not!

-Then what's this? She thrusts the album at me.

-She wanted me to take the photos!

-Naturally.

-Just for laughs... let's chuck it...

-Yes - question is why you didn't years ago?

-Oh bollocks! It's been in the loft forever. I even forgot it existed.

My wife flips to the next photo and holds it up.

-Forgot? I find that very hard to believe.

I shamefully avert my gaze. I'd also forgotten I once owned a macro lens for extreme close-ups.

An unfortunate time travel.

I’ve saved my grandfather’s 16mm films, where a large part of our family history is preserved. Since no one owns a projector anymore, I digitised about eight hours of material. Only a handful of people still alive have ever seen the films before, so it was with a sense of reverence that I stayed up one night watching through it all.

The earliest clip shows my great-grandfather’s 80th birthday. Carefree guests with cocktails under the lime trees, lanterns, cigarettes, and brandy in the black-and-white summer evening. Someone’s little child runs past in a white cotton dress. The next clip is from the same year but shows a group having coffee outdoors on a sunny summer day. Someone else must have been operating the camera because I see my grandfather sitting at one end of the table, around 30 years old. Suddenly, the camera passes the other side of the table, and there sits a person I immediately recognise. The scene is brief, but when I freeze the frame, there is no doubt. The same colours, the same hair, shoulders, posture, nose, and smile. It’s me sitting there.

The next day, I excitedly show the clip to my wife, who agrees that it undeniably looks like me.

-Well, it must be a relative, she reasons logically.

-With genes that produce exact clones?

-Yes, there are people with strong genes.

-But it doesn’t add up, I reply and call my 80-year-old uncle. I ask if he knows who it is in the film.

-It looks like you, but I don’t know who it is, he replies, which rules out the possibility of a close relative.

-Your grandmother had an affair with him, my wife insensitively suggests that evening.

-I don’t want you trash talking my grandmother.

-It’s the only explanation. He’s your biological grandfather, and when your mum gave birth to you - you became his exact copy. That must be it, she concludes confidently.

-Not at all, I reply irritably. It could be me who travelled back in time when I was around 30 and accidentally got caught on camera.

-How?

-I don’t have all the answers! There are several theoretical physicists who argue that it’s possible. I might have stumbled into a wormhole and travelled back in time.

-Well, you’d remember that, wouldn’t you?

-Not necessarily. Travelling close to the speed of light can have strange effects on the brain.

-So, you went back in time and slept with your own grandmother, is that what you’re saying?

At this point, I chose to end the conversation. It was too much to process. Could I be my own grandfather?

One fucking trip.

I never understood people who pay for sex, until one day when I decided to do it myself. Not like the Swedish performance artist who slept with a prostitute and filmed it to show how wrong it is. In my case, it was about my dog Signe, whose genes I believed must be passed on. Not so much for her sake as for my own. I was thinking long-term, so that when our beloved dog one day passed away, her puppies would remain and provide us with a diluted version of our beloved Signe.

I found the perfect male and made a tentative call to the owner, a woman from the Swedish Midlands. She assured me that her male certainly wasn't shooting blanks, having successfully impregnated several females before. I asked rather shyly how I would know exactly when it was time to drive down with Signe. The woman replied that I should massage her "ringpiece" a bit, and if she moved her tail aside, she was ready. I didn't dare ask any follow-up questions and later analysed whether something had been lost in the dialectal differences. In my part of the country, the ”ringpiece" refers to a different bodily opening. I considered calling back to clarify that I was prepared to pay for my dog to be impregnated, not violated. If she or her dog had any other ideas, shouldn't they be the ones paying me? Not that it was an option, but still. It's an important matter of principle. I wanted to buy sperm, not finance someone's sexual fantasy.

After a while, I calmed down and assumed she must have been referring to Signe's more reproductive parts. But the idea that I should massage her there didn't feel right either. Neither for Signe nor for me. Perhaps mostly for me. Should I put on a washing-up glove and then stand there rubbing my dog’s private parts? In my racing imagination, I pictured my wife coming home and surprising me, and the difficulties I'd have explaining what I was up to.

So one weekend I drove to this small town, come what may. Like a pimp. I had a feeling I'd return home with material for an entire novel. And who knew, even with an expectant bitch?

I had packed a cosy blanket, a small nurse's uniform in Signe's size, some scented candles, and prepared a Spotify playlist exclusively featuring Barry White. I envisioned an equal meeting between two mature dogs with the potential for romantic mating at the end. A beautiful vision that was shattered the moment I approached the farm outside the small town. A desolate, red-flagged cottage with a corrugated metal roof, half-overgrown by forest and wild greenery.

I parked by a barn with broken windows and saw chickens running freely around the unkempt property. A rusty car wreck from the 1930s rested in a grove, and in a fenced dog yard behind the barn, I could hear the yapping of two Rhodesian Ridgebacks. The owner came out to meet me, sporting freshly dyed hair and large, jangling jewellery around her wrists and neck. Like a hybrid between Frankenstein’s monster and Sharon Osbourne, I thought, before she ushered Signe and me into the house's kitchen.

I thought I'd walked into a butterfly house, as the room was filled with butterflies and flies competing for airspace. The sun filtered through the dirty windowpanes, and the shadows from the butterflies played on a brocade-patterned linoleum floor. The door to the rest of the cottage was closed, and the air was stuffy and musty as we sat down at a bare pine kitchen table with matching chairs. A daughter of about 16 leaned against a kitchen cabinet with a self-painted cat on it. She kept fiddling with her mobile. The mother slipped out quickly and returned with a Jack Russell male in her arms. She put him down on the floor, and I quickly realised that the nurse's uniform wouldn't be needed to get him interested. The problem was that Signe wasn't the least bit excited. I thought she showed it quite clearly by growling and snapping at the male when he came too close.

-She wants to, she's just playing around, the woman declared in broad Midland dialect. I considered offering a feminist perspective on that statement but realised this was neither the place, time, nor audience for it. The daughter cast disinterested glances at her dog who manically was trying to chisel his way into Signe, she then told her mum offhand that she needed a lift into town soon. Another stress factor. The woman urged me to hold Signe still, to make things easier for her male. Not exactly the Barry White method, and I felt very uncomfortable. Images from films like "Midnight Express" and "The Last Journey" popped into my head, and I had to react.

-I don't think this is going to work. Not like this, I said, choking up.

The woman decided to drive her daughter into town, and we agreed to meet up in a park with our dogs to see if things would work out better there. Signe and I probably had the same view of that kitchen; it created absolutely no desire for sex. Nor cooking, for that matter.

In the park, things changed. The dogs got to know each other and eventually started mating on their own initiative. The woman and I sat down beside them and watched in oppressive silence. Hers was probably more of the unconcerned, bored sort, while mine was more awkward and embarrassed. We held onto the dogs since they apparently can hurt themselves at the crucial moment.

-In case one of them decides to chase after a hare or something, the woman said routinely. At that moment, I just wanted to transform into a hare myself and hop deep into the forest and disappear.

Later I was sitting at home, studying Signe searchingly, trying to interpret every movement and action as proof that the journey wasn't in vain. That I wasn’t a wretched sex buyer who'd only come home with an abused dog and a story to write.

Happy New Life.

As I find myself in the darkest season of the year, I've spent my holiday reading a bestselling book where someone interviewed people in their final stages of life. It might sound rather counterproductive, but I've concluded that it's better to simply embrace all the darkness in the world. If it were a film scene, it's as if I suddenly stop trying to run from the raging grizzly bear in the forest. Instead, I turn around and walk towards it with open arms. The book elegantly captures my own feelings of hopelessness, until it summarises what people regret most on their deathbed. Then it suddenly doesn't feel quite as relevant anymore.

1. I wish I'd had the courage to live life on my own terms rather than meeting others' expectations.

2. I should have worked less.

3. I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.

4. I wish I'd stayed in touch with my friends.

5. I wish I'd allowed myself to be happier.

To me, it's obvious that these points of elevated insight come from a generation raised on self-help books and inspirational fridge magnets with uplifting messages like: "Life doesn't offer reruns", "Seize the day", "Today is the first day of the rest of your life", "You only regret the things you didn't do" and so forth.

So I amused myself by visiting a hospice here in Stockholm during the days between Christmas and New Year's, holding the hands of complete strangers on their deathbeds. Disguised in a Dolly Parton wig, Crocs and a very short hospital gown, I probably looked like a lost drag queen, but no one seemed to react when I sat down. With my head tilted and a sympathetic smile, I patted their hands, determined to get more truthful statements.

-You can let go of all those life-affirming platitudes now. Just tell it like it is, I whispered with my notebook in my lap. Those who could open their eyes did so, and perhaps they mistook me for God. Or alternatively, the Devil - it's hard to tell.

Either way, I got what I suspected: a more credible list of points.

1. I regret not going to a proper doctor straight away, instead of letting some shaman from Sundbyberg try to cure my aggressive cancer.

2. I regret not shagging around more when I had the chance.

3. I should have worn a face mask when I demolished that asbestos villa.

4. I should never have given that lottery ticket as a Christmas present to a colleague who then became financially independent.

5. I shouldn't have gone clubbing in Berlin and tried smoking heroin, only to wake up in a hotel bed with a garden gnome lodged firmly up my backside.

Perhaps these aren't the sort of life lessons you'd print on coffee mugs, pillowcases, or get tattooed, but I reckon this honesty might serve as liberating guiding stars for all of us heading into this rubbish new year.

Happy New Year to you all!

The Journey to Self-Discovery.

I'm wedged between the aircraft fuselage and an enormous man beside me. He's scrolling through TikTok, continuously munching peanuts and drinking full-fat cola. Yes, it's relevant to the story, but we're not there yet.

-Typical that they seated two big blokes next to each other, he suddenly says to me.

I look at him, tempted to inform him that I'm big whilst he's merely fat. But I'm well-mannered and employ my only known superpower - being accommodating.

-Yes, most aeroplanes are built for Smurfs.

He chuckles, and peanut fragments fly through the air, landing in the hair of a woman in the seat in front of him. Then he laboriously turns towards me, as if suffering from both a stiff neck and lumbago. He gives me a conspiratorial look.

-It’s the bloody Liberals' fault.

-Yes, perhaps, I reply with a forced smile whilst trying to process what he's just said. That the Swedish Liberals have compromised everything they believe in just to secure parliamentary seats without any real influence is quite correct. But what do they have to do with aeroplane seats?

-I didn't know they were big in the aircraft industry, I reply, feeling I ought to say something.

-They’re everywhere, ruining everything that's fantastic about Sweden and...

He suddenly chokes on a peanut and can't breathe. His face quickly turns blue, and I'm once again reminded of Smurfs, as he gestures at his throat and looks at me with bloodshot eyes. I want to be a bigger person in this moment. I should yank him out of his seat and perform a perfect Heimlich manoeuvre to save his life. But I have no desire to rummage around his diaphragm and fumble for a seatbelt buried in his fat rolls. Besides, it's doubtful my arms would reach around him; it would just look like I'm trying to spoon a dying man. I'm not sure how I'd explain that to my family. But even if I could get a grip around his love handles, I don't think I could lift him even a millimetre off the aeroplane floor.

-Are the Liberals big in the peanut industry too? I ask before oxygen deprivation causes his eyeballs to whiten and his body to start twitching in convulsions. I realise I should probably call for the purser at this point, but it would be rather nice to have more space to myself, wouldn't it? Am I a terrible person for thinking this way?

Or have I finally stopped being a pushover?

Read more:

The difficult conversation.

Your child has reached an age when it's time for that conversation that's so hard to have. Because how do you explain to children that not all adults are nice without scaring the shit out of them?

-You know you should never accept candy from strange men?

-What about crisps?

-No.

-Cheese puffs?

-Okay, listen carefully now. You mustn't accept anything from people you don't know.

-Once I got a medal from the referee after a football match we won.

-That’s okay. Then there were lots of other people there too.

-I see.

-But never get into strange cars.

-Chinese cars?

-Not those either. But I mean cars driven by someone you don't know.

-But I can ride with you?

-Of course.

-But what if you're not driving?

-Then you don't go.

-Even if it's mum?

-For fuck's sake, you know your own mother, don't you? Sorry. What I mean is that you should never jump into cars with strangers.

-Once I went home with Jonathan after school. His mum drove.

-You know her.

-Jonathan’s grandmother was there too.

-Yes, but his mum was there so…

-I sat in the back seat with the grandmother and she offered me sweets. I think I ate a few pieces.

-That’s alright, darling.

-She said I was cute.

-Of course. I think we can forget about Jonathan's grandmother, it's not old ladies we need to worry about.

-Then she whispered asking if I'd ever seen an old woman naked.